


be still, my foolish heart

by thedeadleaves



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, F/F, F/M, Honestly Rhaegar What Were You Thinking, M/M, Minor Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Minor Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Multi, Old People Gather For Tea And Complain About Their Children, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, R Plus L Equals J
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:27:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25030009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedeadleaves/pseuds/thedeadleaves
Summary: In which Myrcella Baratheon is sent to Highgarden as a hostage.AU: Where Rhaegar won at the Trident, annulled his marriage to Elia, Cersei and Robert are extremely bitter, Willas wants to disappear in his books and Myrcella tries to make sense of the bullshit happening around her.
Relationships: Alerie Tyrell/Mace Tyrell, Baelor Hightower/Elia Martell, Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Myrcella Baratheon & Margaery Tyrell, Myrcella Baratheon & Tommen Baratheon, Myrcella Baratheon/Robb Stark, Myrcella Baratheon/Willas Tyrell, Robert Baratheon/Cersei Lannister, Willas Tyrell & Garlan Tyrell, Willas Tyrell & Tyrion Lannister
Comments: 19
Kudos: 38





	1. the one where myrcella makes a friend in a fishbowl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrcella goes from one fishbowl to a smaller fishbowl and makes a companion.

**Myrcella**

_294_

The war left her father with terrible scars on his chest and her mother a lingering sense of bitterness in her heart. In their shared resentment toward the Starks and the royal crown, Cersei Lannister and Robert Baratheon developed an odd synchrony in their marriage. It was not domestic felicity—far from it—but it was not raging hatred as so many believed. (The times she walked in on them fucking against the wall or in what they believed was a _hidden_ alcove was a testament to that synchrony.) A shared understanding they were both denied their due.

Hatred for the Targaryens and their allies intensified after her elder brother, Joffrey, died two days in the cradle and the crown would not relent in their insistence that one of the Baratheon children be sent to Highgarden or King’s Landing as a hostage. After her father was pardoned for rightfully rebelling against the Iron Throne, King Rhaegar could not afford to look weak and so they made arrangements to send Tommen to Highgarden. 

_“Better he live under the home of Mace Tyrell than Lyanna Stark,” her mother had hissed while brushing her hair in front of the vanity. “But I will personally rip apart any rose who tries to sink their thorns into my precious boy.”_

But Grandfather Tywin and Uncle Stannis, in a surprising show of unity, objected heavily to sending little Tommen to live amongst the roses. Heirs were to be raised and trained under their father and his allies. They were priceless, especially since it was evident Mother would not birth anymore sons, whereas daughters were pawns to be pushed around. Daughters were expendable. 

It was odd how involved Tywin Lannister was in the rearing of his only grandchildren. 

She made the mistake of asking him about it once in front of Mother and Uncle Tyrion. 

_Drolly he had replied, “Whereas children often disappoint, I find grandchildren rarely do.”_

No doubt he meant Uncle Jaime’s refusal to marry Janna Tyrell, Darlessa Marbrand, and Alysanne Leffort, Tyrion’s infamous debauchery, and her own mother’s reckless stupidity. 

It was a terrible war, her parents said loudly and foolishly, but Myrcella saw none of it. She was born a mere eight moons after Rhaegar was crowned King at the Great Sept of Baelor and her father bent the knee, though not willingly, to the new sovereign. Still there was little reassurance to the fact that she was paying for what she believed was the Targaryen madness. Aerys burnt Rickard and Brandon Stark and Rhaegar stole her father’s betrothed. What else were they to do but raise their banners?

Myrcella knew her family did not rebel for the likes of Lyanna Stark alone. No, that was the truth twisted by foolish romantic singers. They rebelled because Aerys did not do his duty and burnt two of his leal lords at the stake. It was hardly treason when the crown committed the ultimate sin but here she was being ‘mercifully’ sent to Highgarden as a way to pay for King Rhaegar’s lack of foresight and Lady Lyanna’s—not Queen Lyanna, no, _never_ Queen Lyanna—selfishness. 

But while Grandfather was fond of her enough to possess the foresight to petition—more like brutally manipulate and threaten—for any Baratheon hostages to be wards anywhere else _but_ King’s Landing, there was still no way of reassuring herself she would not be ripped apart. 

Tommen and Shireen were sweet, at least, and they promised to send letters no less than once a week. Her Grandfather conceded to allowing her cousin Joy Hill to come along as her handmaid. It was her only comfort to the entire affair. A paltry balm but a balm nonetheless. A more effective salve to her wounds would have been to never leave the comfort of Storm’s End, to never be forced to interact with waves of strangers who would certainly sneer at her. Interacting with crowds made her bones ache enough—just the thought of handling malicious courtiers and odd nobles caused her stomach to roil. 

Her stomach continued to roil. 

It was a night before she was due to depart. 

Her lord father had been naturally restless. Robert Barathoen missed no chance to growl about bloody roses over the roast boar they ate at dinner and Uncle Stannis ground his teeth at every mention of the name “Tyrell.” Her lord father hated anyone and anything remotely associated with the Targaryens and her lord uncle never managed to shed that gaunt look from starving with the garrison during the siege. She feared for her father’s sanity and her uncle’s teeth, though not so much she did not preen under their solidarity. It was sweet to see her family together for once, even if it was because she was being sent away. There was hope for reconciliation between the eldest Baratheon brothers. 

Renly was hopeless, of course, as he had made his loyalties clear when he frequented the capital and Highgarden. Once he had brought up the notion of squiring one of Mace Tyrell’s progeny and her father threw a cup at his head while her mother scowled. 

Myrcella waited for Mother to do her hair—straight cornsilk compared to golden curls—at night. Cersei did not want any reminder of the roses and threw away the bottle of rosewater on Myrcella’s vanity by chucking it unceremoniously out the window in a fit of anger. Myrcella normally let her mother rave during her tantrums but this time she was tempted to join in. 

“You are the seed of House Lannister. A treasured daughter of the rock,” Cersei pulled at one of Myrcella’s straight locks. “ _My_ golden daughter.” She straightened herself up, no longer fixating on the silkiness of Myrcella’s hair, and began to plait. There was a perfunctory swiftness to the way her lady mother worked. The hands which worked her tresses were not gentle but she relished in the familiarity of the pain at her scalp. 

Mother had been free to marry as she pleased after the war ended, provided she could find a man who would take such a strong-willed and acerbic woman. Her lord Grandfather had wed her to a rebel lord, an act of defiance against the crown when Rhaegar snubbed the Lannisters again by taking Lyanna Stark as his second wife. Uncle Tyrion told her Grandfather wanted to be a part of the rebel political bloc firmly against the crown, especially when ‘honorable old Ned Stark’ made it clear his sister was not welcome in the North. The wolf-bitch, as her parents were prone to calling her, was Rhaegar’s only wife now that he had managed to insult Dorne too by annulling his marriage to Elia Martell.

‘Only fools and children believed they were free to do as they pleased’ was a common platitude her lord grandfather told her when she thought she could run through the halls of Casterly Rock and chase Tommen around the yard. 

It seemed the Targaryen king fell into the former pool of fools. 

As if her mother read her mind, Cersei Lannister spat bitterly, ranting more to herself than Myrcella, “Only a fool burns the entire realm for a cold, Northern hussy. Silver fool indeed and now he thinks to take my only daughter from me? _My_ golden Myrcella?” She turned to Myrcella, weaving a ribbon through her hair. “You will live amongst the roses but do not forget to let them hear you roar, my little cub. You are a lion—never forget that.”

But it was not forgetting her origin—a strong Baratheon who would show them her fury and a proud Lannister who let them hear her roar—which worried her the most. She grew up under Tywin Lannister’s thumb. Despite how dysfunctional both sides of her family was, they prepared her well for her next undertaking. Her education included philosophy, economics, political analysis and social etiquette (Grandfather Tywin had declared that poetry, dancing, singing and sewing were _not_ an education once he took a look at her mother) even if she abhorred putting on a facade and pretending to be interested in strangers. 

No—it was leaving Tommen behind which egged at her conscience most. Tommen who became quiet at the news of her departure and who rarely left his rooms. One day, she knocked on his door and begged him to come down for dinner—the cooks prepared his favorite and a new singer came from Casterly Rock—but he just threw himself into her arms and soaked her dress with his sobs. Her sweet boy felt so guilty about the fact she was to be the hostage instead of him and Myrcella wondered if her little boy would survive the combined pressure of being the future of House Baratheon and Lannister without her to sing to him at night. 

When they finally arrived at Highgarden (Father, predictably, refused to come along although he foolishly—good god how were her hosts to take of her possessing a _weapon_?—gifted her with a Valyrian dagger hidden in the lining of her trunk before leaving. “To protect yourself against those roses, girl,” he had rumbled before musing, “although if you’re anything like your mother they’ll be trembling before you instead.”) Tommen finally burst into tears and he begged her not to leave as he walked her to the Tyrell host there to greet them. 

Thankfully, Mother refused to leave her wheelhouse, no doubt as an intentional slight against the Tyrells, so she did not witness her brother’s emotional display. 

“Don’t go Cella,” he cried, clinging onto her legs. “I don’t want you to go.” 

She felt tears welling in her eyes and the pitiful looks of her hosts behind her head. “I will come back, Tommy,” she whispered into his ear as she stroked his hair. “I promise. I will _always_ come back for you.” 

“But it’ll be so long and I’ll miss you so much!” 

But she wiped away his tears and refused to let her own shed. “We will always be together, no matter the difference. Now I need you to be brave for me, little stag. Will you do that? Be brave?” 

He nodded dumbly when his hysterics leveled off to a soft hiccup instead of loud wailing. “I can be brave. I can be brave for you Cella.” 

“I love you.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Now run along.” 

Joy ushered Tommen away but not before her brother could throw her one last sad, loving look. 

An older, hobbled sort of Tyrell limped toward her and handed a handkerchief for the pooled tears in her eyes. Steeling her spine, she gently refused, “I see that the famed chivalry of the knights of the Reach was not an exaggeration but I must refuse your kindness, my lord. I have no need for that handkerchief.” 

He shot her an impressed look even as she glared at him. “I suppose introductions are required now, my lady. I am Willas Tyrell, Heir to Highgarden. Welcome to the Reach.” 

With the intelligent glint to his brown eyes, Myrcella thought she might like it here. 

* * *

**Willas**

His father puffed his chest and bragged about the honor the crown bestowed upon them by sending a Baratheon hostage to their home but Willas knew otherwise. For once their king made a smart move in shrewdly keeping Highgarden in his pocket while avoiding the uncomfortable act of having a stag at King’s Landing. 

Willas could only speculate on how horrible _that_ affair would have gone—a child of Robert Baratheon’s in the same vicinity as Lyanna Stark and her son Jonerys, what a recipe for mutually assured destruction. The last time he was at the capital he was able to sneak a peek at the boy, too solemn and grey-faced for his age, and he pitied him. No matter how vehemently Lyanna and Rhaegar proclaimed the validity of their marriage, they couldn't remove the taint of bastardy from their son. Some of the courtiers had taken to dubbing the little prince ‘Jon Snow’ when they thought the King and Queen were out of their earshot.

 _Tyrion was rather clever in pushing for his niece to be fostered in Highgarden_ , Willas mused. 

The imp’s clever scheme to have Myrella sent here, instead of King’s Landing, was to spare her the cruel words which would inevitably follow her every step. He heard from his friends in the capital that the rumors got so bad that King Rhaegar sent Jonerys to live at Dragonstone with Prince Aegon and Dowager Queen Rhaella. At least there he quelled the speculation and murmurs of denying Prince Aegon his birthright.

Something Willas believed his father would gladly deny _him_ in favor of Garlan. Ever since his leg was maimed, his father pushed for him to spend more time at Hightower with the maternal side of his family. While he enjoyed the company of his mother’s family more than his father’s, he could not push away the feelings of bitterness and the speculations his father was grooming Garlan to take over. 

But today, he was to assume the role of the heir to Highgarden by greeting Myrcella Baratheon as head of the welcoming party next to Father. True to rumor, the Baratheon children did not fail to make a dramatic spectacle of themselves—the boy with a tumble of black hair and swollen blue eyes clung to her legs and wailed so loudly it put his grandfather Leyton’s shouting to shame and Myrcella hushed him. He had never laid eyes on the Baratheon children before and was keen on making a good first impression.

When he offered her an embroidered handkerchief scented with roses, she refused and moved onto graciously introducing herself to each member of the welcoming party. _She is good at this_ , he thought. It was common knowledge he was crippled at a tourney two years past and she praised him for his strength, thanking him for taking the time to personally greet her. Margaery she expressed her wish for them to be friends and with Garlan she said tales of his gallant nature were heard even in the Stormlands. When she reached Loras, she asked about knightley customs of the Reach. Down the row she went, reaching Mace Tyrell and crediting his administrative skill to the prosperity of the Reach. Finally she complimented his mother’s beauty and elegant silver locks. 

_If only her smile reached her eyes._

He remembered being taught his courtesies as a child by Grandfather Leyton, Uncle Baelor and even Rhonda before she died of sweating sickness. After Elia Martell married his uncle Baelor she took the responsibility which previously belonged to Rhonda Rowan though she was no less dear in Willas’ heart. Elia drilled the importance of maintaining the image of graciousness and charisma, especially if he did not trust the person he was talking to. She would know best of all how to not give the courtiers and sycophants any more fuel to the fire, as a fellow social outlier. 

Of course the little stag girl had no reason to put any stock in his family and was, predictably, trying to get in on their good graces. She was here as a hostage not an honored guest, though his father might have acted differently. He searched for any trace of true warmth in Myrcella Baratheon’s piercing green eyes and found no sight of sunlight breaking through the clouds. 

“Now if I may have a tour of your splendid home, Lord Tyrell?” She asked sweetly, though he did not miss the expectant edge to her voice. 

She and Margaery would get along splendidly with their penchant to manipulate his father with doe eyes.

Her handmaid, a girl with the Lannister look, save her tanned skin, stepped forward and said to her softly, “My lady, it has been a long journey. Perhaps you would do well to rest first?”

They shared a knowing look which disappeared as quickly as it appeared. 

Myrcella Baratheon waved her off. “Nonsense! The roses of Highgarden are storied and I am keen to see them before the sun goes down.” It was an exaggeration for the sun set no sooner than eight o’clock in the summer. 

Before his father or younger siblings could step in to offer, Myrcella Baratheon turned to him and held out her hand, “Shall we?” 

His entire family raised their eyebrows at the girl but she did not waver. She locked eyes with him, amber and green. 

“Er—” he looked down at her offered arm and took it, knowing refusing would do nothing but insult no less than two Great Houses though seeing his grandmother face off against Tywin Lannister would be a battle for the ages. “Come along this way, my lady.” 

He had long since given up lamenting his dreaded limp, if only because it would stop Uncle Baelor and his mother from blaming themselves over an accident they could not have helped him with. He also did not blame Oberyn Martell for his unfortunate crippling in that godforsaken tilt because the man was so damn interesting. Once, the Red Viper sent him a book on horticulture of the different breeds of flowers in Lys—which contained beautiful scented drawings. The man also gifted him a book on brewing poisons from flowers, but Willas found no need for that yet though he had been tempted to sneak a tonic or two into Grandmother Olenna’s drink when her tongue was too waspish for his liking.

He knew his family, Grandmother included with her tendency to grasp at power, loved him and they were overprotective out of great worry for him. But he sometimes wished his family did not stymie his efforts at independence. It was a tour of their home, one he knew all too well, not a horse race!

Myrcella’s accent was different—singsongy and vowel sounds stretched out—and he supposed it made sense. Westeros was a large continent and the constituent regions were relatively separate from each other. Whereas Willas might have not noticed those details before, he did now when he could not spend his time riding, sparring or training. 

“Your home is very beautiful,” she said more genuinely this time, her eyes becoming wide and mouth slack with shock as they finally reached the flower gardens. “I have never seen such a large variety of horticulture.” 

He nodded along, “I suppose the terrain of the Stormlands does not lend well to growing beautiful flowers.” 

“Now, now,” she waved her hand, “We might not have flowers but you best not overlook the Stormlands, my lord, for our forests are nothing to jest at.” 

There were soft footsteps behind him and Willas turned around, seeing her handmaid dutifully trailing behind. Her skirts swished about and she kept her face down. 

Myrcella followed his trail of sight and snapped her fingers. “How rude of me! Forgive me, Ser Willas. This is my cousin and dearest friend, Joy Hill.” 

“It is an honor to make your acquaintance my lord.” She curtsied more elegantly than most nobleladies he knew and murmured her greetings softly, nothing like the forward girl from earlier. Familiarity allowed the bastard lion to speak casually to Lady Myrcella, it seemed. 

“Come along, Joy. Let’s not dawdle.” She ushered her cousin forward and let Joy take her other crook of the elbow. “Now you were saying, Ser Willas?”

Tucking away the piece of information that she regarded her bastard cousin as kin first, friend second and never a bastard, Willas led them on. 

* * *

**Myrcella**

Mace Tyrell knew how to feast.

She had been seated at the end of the table, as the honored guest, though she felt like a caged animal on display. To her displeasure, Joy was initially seated at a table far away from her and it took a great deal of cajoling Lord Tyrell to convince him to move her up. The Harridan of Highgarden, as Lady Olenna was called in the Stormlands, snapped at her son to agree to Myrcella’s demands or else she would run him into the ground. Myrcella refused to be internally grateful for the old woman’s intervention, though she thanked the woman. 

Earlier she had fussed and fretted over the dress Joy was to wear. The samite blue and silver gown was too fine and the lords would whisper jealously that a bastard should not wear such luxurious clothes and she thought maroon velvet would not do. It did not compliment her cousin’s skin tone. Truthfully, she spent so much time worrying about what her cousin was to wear because she was nervous. The walk with Willas Tyrell had been an attempt to unnerve the Tyrells and gauge their motives but the crippled heir of Highgarden was too good to let his guard down. 

Dammit. 

No amount of plaiting Joy’s hair or dusting her own cheeks with pink rouge could hide the way her hands shook (it _finally_ hit her she was in uncharted territory with only her cousin as a friend) and it was clear from the way Joy eyed her with wide-eyed intensity or pity she saw it too. But Myrcella would not allow the roses or their bannermen to see the true depth of her fear at the feast. She asked Margaery Tyrell about her newest hairstyle. She inquired about Meredith Hightower’s skill with the harp and insisted the girl play for her later. She praised Lady Alerie on Highgarden’s bounty. 

There was plenty of food. Too much of it. 

While mummers performed and singers sang, they began with puff pastry smothered in creamy cheese and fish eggs, and then to oysters covered with tomato relish. The servants brought her fine bone porcelain cups and when she removed the lid there was veal broth. Plates of baked salmon in clay were to be eaten with a luxurious cream sauce. _Filet mignon_ wrapped in smoked bacon, fried capon stuffed with onions, roasted squab and duck on a bed of wilted cress, lamb chops with mint sauce, venison and beer stew underneath a layer of creamy potatoes. There was even a roasted peacock with all its feathers reglued after being cooked so it looked alive. When she cut into a loaf of bread, pockets of buttery cheese dribbled out. For the dessert, there was pudding dotted with raspberries , painted _éclairs_ filled with vanilla _crème_ , peaches in chartreuse jelly, and apples baked in a casing of pastry. 

“All this feasting must cause Reach men to grow thick of waist in their middle ages,” Joy murmured to her as she broke through a layer of burnt sugar and dug into the rich custard pudding underneath. “I fear I will gain ten stone alone. How many courses have they put out? Thirty?”

Myrcella shushed her cousin, though she failed to quell her snort of laughter. “They will hear you.” 

“They will _not_ hear me over the sound of their feasting—did anyone ever tell these men never to chew with their mouths open?” Joy wrinkled her nose, taking a dainty bite of her dessert. “How barbaric.” 

She eyed the way her cousin ate her food approvingly and murmured carefully. “You know, Joy, if you were trueborn half the girls in the Reach would turn green from envy at the sight of you.”

“Do not wish that lifestyle upon me, Cella. I enjoy being a bastard.”

“Oh? Why is that?” 

“I enjoy all the luxuries of the Lannister wealth without any of the responsibility.” 

Myrcella was grateful the sound of the harpist covered their conversation. 

The rich food made Myrcella queasy, though some of the dishes proved to be surprisingly delightful. Still, she ate sparingly and focused on making conversation with her other tablemates though she wished she could speak only to Joy.

“Tell me, Lady Margaery,” Myrcella made a show of cutting into her apple tart in the shape of a rose. “What do the ladies of the Reach do in their spare time? Back at Storm’s End, I often went hawking and riding with my father.” 

“We roses are no different from you in the Stormlands, Lady Myrcella, although I am fond of sailing the Mander on pleasure barges during days of leisure with my mother.” 

“I am sure the view must be splendid,” she replied graciously.

“It is. I am sure you will have more than enough time to witness it yourself. Perhaps you will regale us in your prowess at hawking?”

“It would be my pleasure.” 

_It was not but Grandfather told me to hide my claws._

There was loud laughter down the table as the men boasted about their hunting prowess or engaged in ale drinking competitions. The sight of it was not unfamiliar to her and Myrcella found herself watching longer than necessary. 

“Doesn’t it make you queasy?” Margaery wrinkled her nose. “It’s terribly frustrating—the men get to act as they please and we women must remain on our best behavior.” 

She shook her head, “No. Storm’s End often hosted my father’s bannermen and my uncle Tyrion could drain your private stores dry.” 

“The storied Tyrion Lannister. Is he as infamous as the rumors make him out to be?” 

“Worse,” she rolled her eyes fondly. “He is always half-drunk whenever he visits although I am sure Joy will have more to say about him. She grew up at Casterly Rock.” 

Joy leaned in, whispering to the both of them. “Cella means to say that I have been unfortunate enough to witness him stumbling down the halls more than I would like. Everywhere he goes, he leaves a trail of wine.” 

They let out peals of laughter.

“Although,” Joy mused, tapping her chin thoughtfully, “My impish cousin is more shrewd than two normal men half-sober and he is a marvellous conversationalist.” 

“He is in correspondence with my brother,” Margaery admitted, “but I have never had the pleasure of meeting the man.” 

“Pleasure…” Myrcella laughed. “He _can_ be a pleasure when he wishes to be. He promised to take me on a tour of the Free Cities once.” 

“You sound well traveled, my lady. Have you been to many parts of the Seven Kingdoms?” 

Myrcella tilted her head. “My mother insists we visit Casterly Rock no less than three times a year and my father has sojourned to the North to visit Lord Stark once or twice. I have guested at the Eyrie once before though it was so long ago I can scarcely remember it.”

“How envious. I have never left the Reach.” Margaery let out a forlorn sigh.

A man with Mace Tyrell’s royal connections and personal wealth never allowing his daughter to leave the boundaries of his realm? How peculiar. 

“Not even to the capital?” She asked delicately. “Surely you must have been there at least once.” 

Margaery shook her head. “Not even to King’s Landing—the furthest I have been is to visit my Aunt Mina at the Arbor. As for leaving the Reach, I was too young to go to the Tourney at Lannisport after Greyjoy’s Rebellion. All my family is here so there seems to be hardly a reason for me to leave.”

Did the girl truly expect her to believe such blatant lies? Perhaps someone less familiar with the current political climate might have bought into her words. 

“When your lord father allows me to return to Storm’s End, perhaps he will be generous enough to allow you to come along.” 

Finally a piece of useful information. The apple tart slid down Myrcella’s throat easily. 

Later after the feast, she praised Joy as they were performing their nightly rituals. Her mother drilled the importance of using her essential oils and creams before sleep. 

“You are charming when you wish to be, dear cousin.” 

“Only I do not wish to be charming,” Joy smirked, undoing the braids holding up her lovely blonde hair. Myrcella was almost envious. Her hair was the color of spun gold and even more lovely as the moonlight streamed in. “Unwarranted attention is not a good omen for a bastard girl like me.” 

“I hate it when you use that word.” 

“What? ‘Bastard?’” Joy shrugged easily. “It is what I am. There is no need to pretend I am a Lannister and not a Hill.” 

“You are more Lannister than half of our empty headed relations. Stupid Lancel and his stupid lance.” Her lip curled.

“I am sure my cousin will legitimize me when your lord Tywin leaves this life, if only to spite his memory.” Joy said wryly, referring to an argument Uncle Jaime had a few moons past. It led to Joy being unceremoniously dismissed from Casterly Rock and Myrcella begging her father to take her in.

Myrcella smiled wistfully before dread set in. “Careful now—words are wind but they spread quickly amongst the roses.” 

“And what will you tell your lord father and lady mother when word spreads of your blossoming friendship with the Rose of the Reach?” Joy asked archly. 

Myrcella shot her an indignant look. “We are _not_ friends!” 

“But you could be and it would make this ordeal less unbearable for you.” Joy shrugged, “It might do you some good, however uncomfortable it is.” 

“They are roses. They are not to be trusted.” 

Joy shot her a wry look. 

Myrcella continued to make her argument. “You _know_ I do not like to socialize much.” 

“That’s odd. I saw a girl smile genuinely once or twice during the feast while socializing with our Tyrell hosts.” Joy pointed out. “I cannot always be with you. It will not hurt to have a friend or two, even if you do not entirely trust them.” 

She grumbled, “There is no point in making friends with my jailers.” 

“You laughed with the Lady Margaery. You like her—don’t deny it. 

Myrcella grabbed one of the pillows and threw it at Joy even though she could not get rid of the pang she felt. 

The aching desire to make a friend in her gilded cage. 

* * *

**Willas**

Apart from the limping and the occasional shooting phantom pains which ran up and down his hip—Maester Lomys speculated it was psychosomatic—Willas was able to function fine. He wore a leg and hip brace at all times, except while bathing, and could even ride a horse now. 

Of course he could hardly spend all his waking hours at the training grounds like Gargoyle and Leech did but the fact did not bother him as much as the whispers of his virility and worthiness as a husband. Women could scarcely look at him now without seeing the power within their grasp, especially with the potential for a figurehead cripple of a husband. The welcoming feast for Myrcella Baratheon was one of the largest they hosted in recent times, with a small tourney to follow and a grand ball at the end of the week, and such a social event invited more than a few unwanted jeers at his expense. 

Unwilling to endure any more whispering behind garish fans, he retreated to the library. Thankfully it was on a lower level of the _Gallica_ tower and he did not need to climb many stairs. There were comfortable leather arm chairs, tables for quiet reading, Myrish carpets on the floor and a hushed environment. The musty scent of old books permeated the room despite the efforts of the servants to air it out and place potpourri to rid the smell. Row after row of neatly lined books with their labeled spines faced outward. It was divided by subject of interest and arranged alphabetically. A managed collected with even an index at the lectern, although he knew his family members scarcely used it.

It was, truthfully, a paltry crop compared to the massive winding library at Hightower but today it made do as his sanctuary.

But there was a shrouded figure in his chair—his _favorite_ chair which turned the right way to get the warmth of the hearth at night and the breeze from the windows—and they were bending the spines by leaving the books open upside down on the table. 

_Mother have mercy._

Limping up to his preferred couch, he spotted a blue sleeve. He took in the sight of the entire figure and saw it was Myrcella, their guest of honor. Earlier she strode into the ballroom, tall and graceful, with her chin held high and in a blue-and-silver beaded gown so it was a sight to see her crumpled up in his chair in such an undignified position. Her feet were pulled up to her chest and her slippers abandoned on the floor. 

He looked over her shoulder where she was following the words with her finger. “Is that a good read?” He murmured into her ear. 

She jumped up from her couch and flung the book over her shoulder. “Seven hells!” She turned around and held her hand to her heart. “You fiend! Next time consider announcing yourself before giving me a fright.” 

Smirking, he bent down—with some struggle—to pick up the volume she was reading. _The Nine Voyages_ by Maester Mathis. “My apologies, Lady Myrcella. I did not mean to frighten you.” 

When he handed her the tome, she snatched it back from him and grumbled something about taking years away from her life. 

“I am sure I did not take years off your life, my lady.” He quipped. “You strike me as the type of woman to live until old age.”

She held up the book so it obscured her face from his view. “That would be a fortunate thing indeed, although I do wish to keep my set of teeth and wits about me.”

“When I fostered at Oldtown in my youth—” 

“Are you not young now, my lord?” She raised an elegant eyebrow so it reached her hairline. “I was under the impression you still possessed the privileges and pleasures of a young man.” 

He gestured wryly to his crippled leg and she flushed at her mistake. 

“Forgive me.” She murmured softly, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. 

Willas cleared his throat, taking a seat in the chair next to hers, “As I was saying, the majority of my childhood was spent at Oldtown with my mother’s family. As the seat of intellectual learning of the continent, a truism said by the people there is that ‘reading is to the mind as a whetstone is to a blade.’” He smiled at her as she gave him a dry look. “Your wits will stay with you as long as you endeavour to use them. Education is a lifelong adventure, I am told.” 

“Heir to Highgarden, avid reader, renowned horse breeder.” She closed the book and settled it in her lap, ticking off his titles on her fingers, “Why am I not surprised you would add philosopher to your growing list of accomplishments?” 

“Why am I surprised to see you here?” He gestured around the room. 

“Should a lady not exercise her gifts of literacy?” 

“Should the guest of honor not be at the ball thrown in her name?” 

There was a long silence between them before Myrcella acquiesced, “Well said, Ser Willas.” She gave him a pensive look before sighing deeply, “I needed to get away to compose my thoughts…”

“And there is no better place for composing your thoughts than amongst the collected knowledge of many before you.” 

“Perhaps for you,” she noted cheekily, “but I chose the library because I thought it was the last place someone would stumble into. Alone time is when I can distance the thoughts of others to finally hear my own.” She looked into the hearth with a strange expression, the flames reflecting in her green eyes. “It has been rather difficult to find the appropriate time to myself, lately, though I appreciate the effort your family has put into this grand affair.” 

He nodded along, “I understand your sentiment though I would not have pegged you for such an introvert, my lady. You seemed to be socializing well these past few days. Margie—that is my sister Margaery—is quite taken to you.” 

“She is lovely company,” Myrcella hesitated before asking more tentatively, “but she is rather … colorful at times.”

“Margaery is intense but she means well.”

Myrcella waved him off, “If my cousin were not natural born, I am sure your sister and Joy would make the best of companions. Two peas in a pod, those two. They are such natural public figures.”

“You know,” he crossed his good leg over his bad one and leaned back into the chair, “my favorite Gardener king is Garth the Sixth better known as the Morningstar. He died in battle against the Ironborn?” 

“Oh? I take it that is not the reason he is endeared to you.” 

“No,” Willas chuckled. “Historians noted despite his martial valor and skill, he was known amongst his close circles for his crippling shyness. Apparently off the battlefield, he could scarcely look people in the eye. Yet, he became one of the most famed kings of the Reach.” 

She looked at him with an intensity that he wanted to avert his face. The impassive stillness of her face did not entirely hide her wits. The green of her eyes allowed her intelligence to shine through.

“I quite understand …” she said slowly, “I’m also rather shy by nature. It is what led me to your library. This is about as private as it gets in a grand castle. Even my chambers always have maids or servants running about.”

“This, or with the animals, is where people like us feel most comfortable. We have a sanctuary to escape to.” He agreed, grabbing one of the books from the table and running his fingers down the aged parchment. 

Myrcella let out a sharp, bitter laugh, “Why did the gods think it fit to have people like us—who do not relish the attention—end up in the goldfish bowl that being a noble?”

“There is a perverse irony to it. We are best suited for our positions because we do not enjoy them nearly as much as others might think. It forces us to maintain our facade and work harder to fulfill our responsibilities. We do not seek more than we need or have been blessed with.” 

“That is a comforting thought,” she noted with a sarcastic tone, “there is no need to worry about the Reach launching a full scale continental conquest during your tenure as Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South.” 

He shrugged, letting the edges of his lips do the slightest curve upward. “I have bigger things to ponder on than being king of the world. I am not the martial character other men seek in a ruler.” 

It was far from wise to admit this to a stranger let alone a Baratheon but Myrcella seemed so harmless and small in her dress like a little girl dressed in her mother’s clothes so he felt as if she could not wield his words against him. Not when the truth was so plainly visible. 

“I wonder if this is why I have gravitated toward someone like Joy as my companion.” She pondered, “A shy person seeking someone strong to protect them.” 

She had not struck him as shy when she all but demanded he give her a tour of the gardens, but being the product of two great houses would force any child into a position they were not comfortable with. _He_ would know. He was an expert at feigning interest and skillfully initiating conversation when he would have rather been doing anything else. If only it were not so insulting that she blatantly used him to seek out his weaknesses. 

_Was she doing that now?_

He had been away from Highgarden for too long, away from his Grandmother Olenna’s Redwyne schemes and harridan antics, away from the sharp ambition of his father and the politics of House Tyrell. It was so easy to slip back into that mindset even after only a fortnight.

She was a little girl in a foreign land, seeking comfort in a kindred soul. There were years left until all that innocence would make way for a scheming Lannister shrew. 

“Strong characters are often the ones who enjoy public life, thrive in it actually. My brother Garlan is the same actually. His idea of heaven is jesting with others—making friends out on the courtyard and racing with the other boys. My siblings would not be caught dead in a library.” He snorted, thinking about how woefully uneducated they could be on certain matters. 

“And what is your idea of heaven if your brother’s is the company of others?” 

His eyes flickered over to her face where the flames danced and cast a soft glowing light. “I like my own company and to be alone with the animals. Perhaps out in the countryside.” 

“Do you like to go hawking?” 

A smile broke out over his face. “It is one of my most favorite pastimes. I use an eagle to go hawking.” 

“Really?” She sighed dreamily. “I can imagine it—going hawking out in the countryside, with the scent of pine trees around me and the swish of the wind in my hair. It is absolute ecstasy. I already miss it.” 

“We can go sometime, together.” He suggested before he could stop himself and then hastily adding, “To help ease the homesickness.”

She smiled and nodded shyly, “I would like that.” Her eyes took a faraway, glazed look. “One of the things I miss most about my home is the sea. The seaward side of Storm’s End stands upon Durran’s Point and it faces Shipbreaker Bay. It overlooks the sea and whenever my brother and I were troubled, we would sit together in silence and look as the waves crashed into the cliffs. We always did that before we were expected to entertain.” 

“You are clever to clear your head before spending so much time around people. It does the mind good.” 

_Although I wish I did not need it._

Sometimes he thought his brother Garlan would have made, if not the better, the more natural heir to Highgarden but he would _never_ admit that in case word got back to his father and he was stripped of his birthright.

It was the great paradox of their position. They were both individuals who were expected to socialize with a great deal of people but deep down they were happiest amongst nature or the company of animals. Never truly at ease unless they had their closest friends or family with them. Myrcella did seem so carefree unless Joy was around her and making her giggle until tears bloomed in her eyes. Willas did not expect to feel genuine empathy for Myrcella—she had come off as steel-boned and unbreakable—and so the connection they shared shocked him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise all the characters tagged will make an appearance later. I intend to have the Targaryens appear in later chapters when Myrcella is a little older.
> 
> Also part of Willas and Myrcella's conversation was inspired by a favorite scene of mine from the Netflix series 'The Crown.' Check it out! It's amazing.
> 
> Birthdates: Myrcella (283), Tommen (286). Willas (277), Garlan (280), Loras (283), and Margaery (284).


	2. the one with the not-so-dirty mistress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrcella and Willas both make unexpected discoveries.

**Myrcella**

She was not sure if she read the letter correctly and rubbed her eyes in disbelief. 

_What the actual fuck?_

Her lord father, Robert Baratheon, had brought his bastard children to their home as playmates for Tommen who was lonely in the months since she left. A boy named Gendry Waters from Flea Bottom, a girl named Mya Stone from when her father fostered at the Vale, and another boy her brother’s age called Edric Storm. A set of three and there was no denying their relation to Lord Baratheon. All reports indicated they bore the same ebony hair and blue eyes typical of the Baratheons. The gates to hell would empty into their earth before _Stannis_ fathered a bastard so they were her father’s. 

While she appreciated the effort her lord father made to take into consideration Tommen’s sentiments, it was more than she genuinely expected from a self-centered man like Robert, she wanted to wring his neck for the sheer stupidity of sending Davos Seaworth to collect all their bastard kin. What sort of man brings his male bastards to raise alongside his only trueborn son? 

She could catalog all the political, social and familial ramifications of the lunacy and write an entire book that would put the maesters to shame. It was an insult to her hot-tempered mother to bring the bastards to Storm’s End, a cause of resentment from her extremely prideful lord Grandfather Tywin, a source of contention of Tommen’s place as the one true Baratheon heir, and an overall bloody mess of things. 

“I have been gone for less than half a year and my family decides to unravel at the seams.” She hissed while putting a new pair of earrings on as her cousin reread the letters they received from Lord Tywin, Uncle Stannis, Uncle Tyrion and Tommen. “Good grief! What do they all want from me? It’s not as if I can fix this.”

“Err—” Joy picked up one of the letters, “Your kin indicate you might have an inkling on how to properly diffuse the problem.” 

“If the politically astute and effectual Tywin Lannister cannot get my father to see sense, why would _I_ be able to?” 

“You have the advantage of being able to elicit feelings of love and fondness from Lord Baratheon as his only daughter. Men often yield to their daughter’s demands.” 

She let out a puff of frustration, surrendered to Joy’s logic and waved her along. “Well, we haven’t got all day. What do the letters say?”

“Your lord grandfather and Lord Stannis want you to ask Lord Tyrell for permission to come home and convince your father against this folly. Your Uncle Tyrion wants you to do nothing because he finds it to be a great source of entertainment and your brother Tommen….” Joy held the paper away and then moved it closer to her face as if she could not comprehend the words on the parchment. 

“What about my brother?” She snapped, moving to peer over Joy’s shoulder. 

Joy smiled and Myrcella was instantly suspicious. “Your brother says he has taken to his new siblings like ducks in water. ‘Mya is good with animals and all the cats like her. They follow her around like ducklings do with their mother. Gendry is not so fond of animals and has been scratched numerous times while Edric sits back and laughs. I like Edric the most but please don’t tell the others. I don’t want them to be cross with me. He’s a year younger than me but is better at sparring. Whenever he wins, he never makes fun of me and always asks me to do it again so we can get better together.’ Sounds like Tommen is enormously fond of your half-siblings.”

Myrcella could feel the beginnings of a migraine forming at her temples and attempted to quash them by placing her damp towel on her forehead. She crouched over her vanity. It was a well-made thing with dark polished wood and carvings of roses creeping up the sides. Her heart hammered against her chest. She could not help but think of how, if not for overgrown manchildren thinking they had reign to do as they pleased, she could be at Storm’s End listening to the waves right now. But she had pulled herself away from her home, voluntarily, to spare Tommen the pain. Now, she could not help but think about how _unfair_ it was for her family to expect more from her. Revisions swept through her head. Perhaps she should have been less mindful of her duty, a little more outspoken. Then they would not have placed this enormous pressure on her to get a bullheaded man like Robert Baratheon to see sense. A thread of similarity her brother and father shared was their preference to let their emotions rule their decisions. 

But she made her bed and now had to lie on it, however painful that may be. 

“Dammit.” Myrcella put her face into her hands and let out a loud groan of frustration. “ _D_ _ammit_ Tommy. Why couldn’t you have liked them less? Bugger it all.” 

“My lady?” Joy asked, poking her on the shoulder as Myrcella laid her face down on the vanity. Myrcella peeked up from where she placed her face into her folded arms and glared openly at her cousin. “You cannot possibly be thinking…” 

She threw up her hands in resignation, “What _else_ am I to do then, oh wise one?”

“Did you decide to slaughter a chicken and divine your plan from its intestines? Because you are speaking malarkey to me. Or perhaps you went to consult a woodswitch—that is the only reason you are even considering this course of action.” 

“Joy! I cannot do anything else.” 

“Yes, you can! You can do anything but _that_!” Joy jumped up from her seat, in a rare display of passion and threw the letters down to the floor. “Myrcella you’re insane!” 

“I know,” She responded dismally, “but… it is not as if I have many options moving forward—” 

“You could write to Lord Stannis and convince him to take in the children at his keep on the edge of the Stormlands. You could send a raven to your father and remind him of the Blackfyre Rebellions—how bastard boys are a threat to Tommen and the Targaryens could use them against him. You could tell your Grandfather to send them off with some coin, for fear of your mother killing them!” Joy whispered harshly, aware of the spies running amok even in her outrage. “Anything but _that_! This is lunacy.” 

“It is already done,” Myrcella replied wearily. “I will write to my father and talk about the benefits of having some playmates to bring Tommen out of his shell. The bastards will stay.” 

Joy’s jaw dropped open, “That is worse than reckless—that is the _dumbest_ thing you have ever done and you once tried to sneak out at night to see the Sky Cells at the Eyrie—” 

“It was _one_ time,” she said grumpily and she pointed out affronted, “and you are natural-born too. I do not see why _you_ out of all people are objecting so heavily!” 

“I am the daughter of a fourth son who had so little prospects of being a lord in his own right that he sailed across the world in search of a lost relic as if he did not crave glory and fame outside of Lord Tywin’s shadow.” Joy replied bluntly. “There was no possibility of me ever being a threat.”

Myrcella winced. To her shame, she hardly ever thought of Joy’s life outside of the direct orbit of her own and it was a painful train of thought to remember that Joy had a relatively loving family before she came into Myrcella’s service. And before Uncle Gerion left for the east. 

“When was the last time he sent you a letter?” Myrcella ventured gently, remembering how close Gerion and Joy were. She was too young to join him on the voyage to the East and it was not a journey for the fainthearted. “Last I heard, he was in Volan—” 

“He is dead.” Joy cut in harshly. “It has been over a year since we last had any word of his whereabouts…” There was a brightness to Joy’s eyes Myrcella did not like. She wished she could kiss her dear friend’s worries away but found herself inadequately equipped to handle the situation so she remained quiet. “If Lord Lannister’s men could not find my father, he is dead.”

“Oh.” 

“If I could have saved Papa from his foolish scheme, I would. I would do anything to turn back time and beg him not to get on that ship, but I cannot.” She grabbed Myrcella’s hands. “But you can—you can save your father from his own foolhardiness.” 

Myrcella wanted to sob then and throw her arms around Joy’s neck. Where her cousin long learned to school her emotions and reign them in, the world was too hard on her like, Myrcella always felt the urge to act as the outlet for Joy’s grief and struggles. If Joy would not cry, then she would for her cousin’s sake. 

However much she loved Joy, she would not defer to her cousin’s advice even if the blatant emotional manipulation pulled at her heart strings. 

“Damn,” Myrcella gave Joy an impressed look, “you are a Svengali of the highest order.” 

Joy rolled her eyes, “I learned from the best.” A pause. “Will you do it?” 

“No,” she shook her head mournfully. 

Her cousin’s irritation was beginning to peek through again. “Why not? How’re you supposed to ensure those bastard boys aren’t a threat to Tommen in the future?”

She bit her lip, unsure of the success of her plan and wary for all the reasons Joy was rightfully pointing out. “I haven’t a clue...” she admitted smally, “and I know allowing this to happen has the potential to reap disaster.” 

“But?” 

“But Tommy finds it difficult to befriend boys his own age. They can be _mean_ —” 

“You cannot coddle him forever, Cella. He needs to grow up eventually.” 

It was her fault for seeking empathy from someone as jaded as Joy. 

“He is woefully unathletic, soft-hearted and lives with Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister—two of the most emotionally damaged and volatile people you will _ever_ meet. I am sure my brother is aware of how difficult the real world will be for him, more so than most his age.” Myrcella’s stomach lurched at the memory of her brother’s tear streaked face and him asking her why the other boys made fun of him so. He would be lucky if they ignored him instead of throwing insults on the yard. 

Joy’s face softened. “You already volunteered to come here in his stead. You cannot continue to let him be the center of your world, Cella. It is time you had a life of your own.” 

“I came here for him, to spare him the pain of leaving home when he is so young. I will convince my family to accept my half-siblings so Tommy finally has friends of his own. When this Edric boy instills some self-confidence into my brother, we will handle the rest.” 

“We?”

“You will help me.” 

“I will?” 

“Don’t be coy. You have cemented your loyalties by helping me fight my battles. Who else helped me sneak to the Moon Door back then?” 

Joy digested the information for a moment and then got up to grab the stationary at Myrcella’s vanity. 

“I might regret this.” She ran a hand through her curly hair. “No—I will definitely regret this. The only benefit I can think of is that little Tommen finally grows some claws of his own.” She heaved a tired sigh and then acquiesced, “What shall you have me write to your lord father then?”

* * *

**Willas**

Garlan woke him up the morning of Alester Florent’s visit with a sympathetic smile. “Do try your best to not look as though you are marching off to war, Will,” he jested, aiming to lift Willas’ spirits and failing miserably. “I hear Delena Florent has a lovely laugh and few are lucky enough to hear it. Perhaps you will entice her to laugh once or twice?” 

Willas glared and rolled off the bed. He took the brace from where it laid next to the nightstand and stretched out his leg so he could fit it around his knee. While it was necessary to keep his hip brace on at all times, there was more flexibility to be afforded when wearing his knee brace. 

“It would not be unreasonable for me to assume she has little reason to laugh now.” 

Margaery heard about Lord Robert bringing all his bastards to his home from her septa who was friends with the septa that educated Myrcella back at Storm’s End. Gossip travelled faster through the Faith than anywhere else.

“Not with your charms, brother,” Garlan shot him a salacious side long glance. “The last I recall you have always possessed a wholesome and unassuming characteristic which has endeared you to women.”

“Oh, what a fine match made in hell Delena Florent and I would make,” he grunted, buckling the brace with its leather straps and feeling the press of the steel against his calf. “A woman who was deflowered and gave birth to a bastard out of wedlock marrying the shy heir to Highgarden.” 

“How exceedingly traditional-minded of you, Will.” Garlan exclaimed, throwing him an amused look. “I was not under the impression you are such a stickler to social codes of conduct.” 

He gave his brother a wry look, “By nature of my status as a cripple—” 

Garlan scoffed. 

“—I am not but even I can recognize that it pushes the boundaries of respectability if I were to show any interest in this woman, especially as the heir to a Great House no less!” 

His brother eyed him warily, “It is unlike you to equate a woman’s worth to her virginity. I thought the Old Man and Malora taught you better.”

He waved Garlan off and shook his head, “You don’t understand then, Gargoyle.” Willas sighed. There was a moment of silence and when he was no longer able to bear it, he confessed. “I do not have any wish to receive Delena Florent because her father is foisting her on me due to my leg. They all believe my bad leg makes me deserving of an unworthy bride—” he held up his hand, knowing Garlan was going to jump at the chance to point out the misogynistic undertones in his words, “—or what society would deems unworthy.”

“You do deserve the best. Delena is a kind woman,” Garlan pointed out, moving around his room and tutting at the disheveled state of it. He picked up books littered on the floor and stacked them neatly on his nightstand. For a moment, Willas envied how swiftly his brother was able to accomplish the task and the jealousy festered more when Garlan threw himself onto the foot of the bed. “A tad sad, considering her only son was sent to live with his father’s family but otherwise very sweet from what Leo told me.” 

“You correspond with Leonette often.” He pointed out and savored the sight of his brother flushing a pearl pink down to his neck. 

Garlan shifted, like a child accused of sticking his hand into the cookie car. “We are friends. There is nothing out of the ordinary if she writes letters to me.” 

Willas drank from the cup of water at his bedside and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “About her personal dilemmas?” 

“Is that not what friends do?” 

“You pining after Leonette Fossoway and sending her letters with flowers pressed into them is certainly _not_ what friends do.” 

“I do not—” Garlan started angrily, “How did you—” his brother threw his hands up and growled, “—I most certainly do not pine after her and you need to stop reading my letters!” 

“It was lying open faced on your nightstand,” Willas responded innocently. 

His brother turned around and shoved his finger under his nose, shaking his fist angrily. “Now, now this conversation wasn’t about my relationship—” 

“—so the gargoyle coaxed the assuming maiden into being in a relationship with him—”

“Shut up!” Garlan smacked him on the head. “This conversation is reserved for your refusal to give any woman a chance to get to know you. Talk to Delena Florent, take her on a stroll in the godswood, woe her with your encyclopedic knowledge of courting customs in different cultures. Who knows? A certain noblelady might surprise you.” 

“If all goes as her father intends, at least I know she will have sufficient practice in mothering a child.” He commented bitterly. “She’s also proven fertile.”

Garlan ignored the sharp, hollow quality to his voice and clapped him soundly on the back, “Atta boy, Will. Now that’s the attitude we need in our future Lord Paramount!” 

Although the solid blow to the back caused some pain, he failed to hide a smile at Garlan’s casual treatment of him—he was one of the few who did not walk eggshells around Willas and treated him as ordinarily as any other man.

“If she does become your betrothed, you will inform me first.” Garlan said imperiously, looking more solemn than Willas had seen since his accident at the blasted tourney. 

Willas furrowed his eyebrows. “What reason do I have for delivering the news to you first?” 

“So I may have ample time to compose a litany of jests about your preference towards older women, of course!” His brother threw his head back and laughed uproariously. “They will have you rolling on the ground and crying from laughter.” 

“How quaint, I did not know your lifelong ambitions included becoming the first Tyrell man to be a court fool.” 

“The only fool here is you.” 

Willas made a rude gesture with his hands. 

“Brother, you are aware Father’s bannermen will not stop unloading their daughters, widowed sisters, and spinster aunts onto you even at Hightower?” Garlan asked conversationally, opening one of Willas’s books though they both knew he had no interest in poetry or fictional literature. “Therefore you should not retreat with your tail between your legs. Your place is here at Highgarden.”

He rolled his eyes, feeling superbly tired even though he just woke up. “At least I will have the old man and Baelor to help me fend them off—” 

“You could always use your cane—” 

“—and it will spare me the horror that is about to come.” 

“So it is true then? The heir will come to foster here?” Garlan leaned back on the frame at the foot of the bed. “Two victories for our father then. Rhaegar awards his allies well.”

Willas hummed noncommittally. “He is not in a position to alienate any more of the seven kingdoms.”

“Is that why it would be a horror for the heir to come here?” Garlan asked. 

“No—Rhaegar’s rule stirs dissonance in the nobility it seems.” 

“Because of his laws? Why would lords object to having greater influence in the capital?” 

“It is not his public policy which causes worry.” Willas pulled on his leather boots which were reinforced to support his ankle. “No—it is his blatant favoritism towards his younger son. Sending Aegon here is to correct that behavior, I believe.” 

“Are you sure he prefers the younger son? Will he pass Aegon over as heir?” Garlan’s eyes widened in surprise. “Which son do you think the regions will support if that were to happen?” 

They were both well-versed in history, as their tutors insisted they learn from the mistakes of kings past, and shared a knowing look. 

“The last time we were in the capital together, did you see any of the Northmen or Stormlanders embrace Lyanna Stark warmly even in a felicitous setting? Lord Eddard Stark has made it clear his sister’s elopement with our king does nothing but besmirch the honor the Starks are infamous for and I suspect Jon Arryn shares the same attitude.” 

“Ahhh,” Garlan stroked his chin, a hint of a beard already growing there. “With Robert Baratheon’s marriage to the Lioness of the West, the Westerlands would not support the second son either. Lord Baratheon was deeply insulted by Lyanna Stark, after all. It’s a shame he went to war for her.” 

“Four out of the nine great houses did not rebel for an impulsive wolf-girl.” Willas pointed out sourly. He was old enough to remember the fighting of the rebellion though it hardly touched the Reach. “They raised their banners because the Mad King broke the sacred law and murdered two of his own loyal subjects. Because Aerys was as worthy of the Iron Throne as our bannermen believe me of my future titles.” 

Garlan’s eyes finally shone with understanding, “So sending the eldest Targaryen here will be a symbolic gesture—that Prince Aegon remains heir to the throne despite what happened to Elia Martell—” they both exchanged uncomfortable looks as Elia was nothing but gracious, courteous and sweetly humorous whenever they visited Oldtown, “—and it cements our family’s support to the prince. How clever. It seems Rhaegar has learned from his past follies.” 

“Not all of them,” Willas muttered darkly, “the last time I was at King’s Landing he was wont to give in to Lyanna Stark’s desperate pleas. To bring more Northerners to the council, to allow her to travel to the North.” 

“I see no harm in allowing her to travel,” Garlan shrugged. “She does less damage a world away from the capital then. Her presence would not be missed at court.” 

Willas nodded, agreeing with his brother’s assessment before a shadow passed over his face. “The problem the Targaryens have with two sons from two different women is that it causes strife. It is the natural, maternal instinct to provide the best for one’s child. Which woman will not fight to place their own flesh and blood on the throne? Lyanna Stark visiting her kin in the North, by itself, is harmless but her getting Rhaegar to agree to foster the bastard boy there?” 

His brother’s eyes widened to the size of saucers and he sputtered. “How—I—what?”

“Do that for another five minutes and you are me when I learned about it from Lady Nymeria.” He grabbed his doublet and pulled it over his head. 

Garlan wrinkled his nose. “That woman scares me. Reminds me of Grandmother.” He schooled his features to be more contemplative and reflective. “Surely the royal family is not so unsuspecting to not recognize such a folly sows the seeds of another Blackfyre rebellion? Another civil war? How could they allow that to happen?” 

“Nym says Rhaegar denies his she-wolf little.” He sighed, running his hands down his face. “Dowager Queen Rhaella made her misgivings about the affair known, especially when she was doing the raising of the two princes at Dragonstone and felt her son and his wife had little to authority in their upbringing. Nymeria’s father wrote she tried her best to convince her son against it but Rhaegar and Lyanna remained firm.” 

It was known to all those who had informants at the capital and visited that the two Queens feuded often and openly. After years of suffering under the whims of mad kings and foolish princes, Rhaella was not so gracious to hand over her political power as Rhaegar believed she would be. Lyanna made her thoughts on the matter clear: expecting Rhaella to give her what was rightfully hers and should be grateful to do so. While the fighting and bickering was not so extreme to lead to physical violence, Willas sensed the palpable tension between both parties when he last visited.

“Am I wrong to assume Prince Aegon’s sudden tour around the Reach and his fostering here is connected to Prince Snow’s fostering in the North?” 

“No, you are right on the dot but Prince Aegon will not foster here for some time yet. I heard from Mother that the crown prince is visiting Baelor and Princess Elia at Hightower. Naturally, they will make their way to Highgarden with the two royal children.” 

“Naturally,” Garlan agreed. 

Willas raised his eyebrow, “Do you think it is not terribly convenient before Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys are due to visit that our father would concede to Grandmother’s plans to allow Delena Florent to guest here?” 

“Why should Grandmother put so much stock into the Florents trying to marry their disgraced daughter to you?” Garlan challenged, rising to his feet and putting his hand on Willas’s shoulder. “Grandmother’s scheming and harridan antics are too subtle for my thick head so you will have to do the comprehension for me, dear brother.” 

“Just like when we were children.” Willas shook his head fondly, not putting any faith into Garlan’s self-deprecation. His brother was a great deal cleverer than most believed. “Grandmother hopes to have Margaery charm the crown prince so much he will want to foster here. By inviting Delena Florent, a moon before the royals are due for a visit, it will inevitably insult Cella —” 

“Because Delena gave birth to Robert Baratheon’s bastard…” Garlan surmised before his eyes became more sly, “Hey, when did little Baratheon become ‘Cella’ to you?” 

He ignored his brother’s last question. “Of course, they will try to apologize and ease Myrcella’s wounded pride by offering her an impromptu visit to Oldtown and she will accept because we are friends.” 

“All you two do is insult each other, a poor example of friendship—”

“Margaery is a Tyrell and with her brings our grain, our land, our food and our resources. However, Myrcella is a Baratheon _and_ a Lannister. She brings Lannister gold, Lannister soldiers, Robert Baratheon’s true fealty, and access to the most influential political alliance in the Seven Kingdoms. Margie is the rose of Highgarden but how does that compare to assured peace and stability in the realm? If you were king, who would you wish to bind yourself to? One house proven loyal to you? Or four of the other Great Houses?”

Garlan swallowed and said slowly, “Grandmother hopes by removing Myrcella long enough for Prince Aegon to visit, there are no possible rivals to Margaery as queen. Our dear sister will have made such a wonderful first impression on the prince that he ignores Myrcella in the future.” 

“Ding, ding, ding.” 

“Olenna is a cunning old witch.” 

“That’s one way to put it.” 

* * *

**Myrcella**

Since the first meeting, Myrcella and Willas established an unofficial routine. They would meet in the library once a week and discuss the books they had read. She would annoy him by putting her feet up on the leather couch (although he had not said it, she made sure not to situate herself on what was clearly _his_ seat) and gush about the latest literary character she liked. He did not enjoy fiction as much as she but he was passionate about history—so she made the conscious effort to read historical fiction. They shared a common enthusiasm over learning about far off lands. He had never visited the North or the Eyrie so she did her best to describe the peculiar weather of both regions.

To her disappointment, but not astonishment, Willas informed her a few days before he had other duties to attend to and would be unable to meet her at their regular spot. It was a shame but she could not find it in her heart to be angry. At the end of the day, all men were slaves to their families’ wishes—Tyrell boys included. 

So it was a surprise to her when she realized Willas’ obligations included walking with a pretty wisp of a woman with prominent ears and pale blue eyes. The woman was tittering as Willas made a joke and hobbled slowly along the pathway. 

Myrcella froze on the spot, recognizing Willas’ companion as the other woman stood tall behind the trimmed hedges and could be seen even from their spot underneath the shade of a large rowan tree. A grape remained half-chewed in her mouth and Myrcella’s face fell slack from shock. 

“Cella? What’s wrong?” Margaery asked, looking up from where she was teaching the other girls a game of cards on their picnic blanket. 

Myrcella swallowed the remainder of her grape and smiled tightly. “Nothing Margie. I got caught up daydreaming.” 

“Oooh,” some of the girls tittered. “Was it about a boy?” 

“Was he dashing?” Meredith Hightower interjected, abandoning her previous occupation of strumming the harp in favor of sighing dreamily. “Were you dreaming of brave princes fighting for your favor?” 

“Forget princes,” Elinor Tyrell said with a faraway look in her eyes, “A flower from a gallant knight will do for me.” 

“I _was_ thinking of a gallant knight,” Myrcella whispered secretively. 

Instantly their entire party burst into a cacophony of scandalized shouts and questions while Joy, who was previously embroidering a bouquet of flowers, raised her eyebrow knowingly. 

Margaery nudged her along, “Do tell. Who is the man who has captivated my sister’s attention?” 

“Why Margie,” Myrcella giggled slyly, “It’s none other than your dear brother Garlan!” 

Maragery threw a strawberry at her and missed spectacularly. “Oh!” She lobbed another one at Myrcella who caught it in her mouth and grinned roguishly. “You little imp! That’s my _brother_ you’re fantasizing about.” 

“And he’s so handsome too,” she teased, biting her lips a tad more obscenely than she usually did. She licked the strawberry juice off her fingers and smirked, “Unless you’re saying Ser Garlan is not nearly as gallant as everyone believes him to be?”

Margaery grumbled and shoved her lightly. “Oh you.” 

They all whispered about the best looking boys they knew. Baelor Brightsmile's name was thrown in multiple times to fluster little Meredith and the other girls agreed Tanton Fossoway was handsome in a rugged, rustic way. Cheeky Elinor Tyrell hinted at Myrcella’s uncle Renly and she nearly threw the pot of honey at the girl’s head. Joy with her clever tongue declared she thought Tyrion to be the most handsome man she ever laid eyes, likely in an attempt to quell what she thought was a ridiculous conversation, and the other girls snickered but did not press the matter further. 

To her annoyance, they insisted on playing a kissing game where they held a thin embroidered handkerchief to their mouths by sucking and then transferred it to their partners by blowing into the air. Myrcella knew young girls her age participated in such activities but she had never seen it herself. Her father’s bannermen did not have daughters her age and the only other noblegirl she spent time around was Shireen (and Joy though none could call her cousin a ‘lady’). 

She took the little sheet with hesitation, for all the talk about romance bothered her so. Her lord father made it no secret he wished to marry her off to Robb Stark—their family _was_ due a Northern marriage—yet she was doubtful. The Northmen might have held her father in high respect for his martial prowess and charisma but she doubted the honorable louts would take well to a Lannister-looking bride for their future leader. None of the people she knew who married by arrangement seemed particularly happy. Misery loved company in her parents’ relationship and the only thing which held it together was their shared spite for another entity beyond each other. But that was not a marriage, that was allowing hatred to fester. Stannis and Selyse were woefully mismatched, with little patience for each other. Their relationship seemed strongest when parenting Shireen but even then they were notoriously cantankerous. 

_I suppose with a Baratheon-Stark match, we can finally ease the rift the wolf-bitch caused when she flashed her cunny at the dragon-fool_. 

Though the way she saw it, arrangements made for love hardly seemed to work out well. They were all accursed. Rhaegar wanted Lyanna and the realm burned for it. Her lord grandfather was left to stew in his grief after her lady grandmother died on the birthing bed. Her father’s parents married for love and drowned together. 

No, perhaps it was best not to consider love at all in a betrothal. Love built a tragic story mummers played out to entertain guests at feasts. Mutual compatibility, goals and respect were the true foundations of a happy marriage and enduring family. 

It was no secret her grandfather wished to unite _their_ family with the Crown. He made it clear to her that while her mother would not be queen, that possibility was not far out of reach for her if she wanted it. Myrcella feared it was true.

So when Margaery insisted her gaggle of girls return to the castle for some dancing, Myrcella insisted they leave without her. She needed time alone. 

“But Cella,” Margaery began, clutching her arm and clearly suppressing the urge to drag her from her spot against the tree, “you mustn’t sit out here by yourself! Surely it will be more entertaining if you danced with us.”

“I won’t be alone,” Myrcella insisted. She held up her thick book and smiled tightly. “I would say this is splendid company.”

Joy let out an affronted noise in the back of her throat and harrumphed. “Why you choose to spend your time amongst old musty pages is beyond _my_ comprehension, my lady.” 

She tried to get Joy to read the stories she enjoyed but it was no use. Her cousin developed an aversion to all things adventurous and fantastical. It was an admirable trait, to be so grounded in reality but there was a thrill in losing oneself into another life. 

Margaery nodded along, “Should I be offended your preferences lie amongst books rather than me?”

The doe-eyed girl was always hinting they should spend more time together, so naturally Myrcella was dubious and perpetually on the alert for ill intent. Still, she appreciated Margaery’s company well enough and even Meredith Hightower at times. The other Tyrell girls she could have made do without. It had not slipped her attention that Megga hesitated to receive the handkerchief from Joy’s mouth earlier. It had been agony to stop herself from slapping the pompous girl silly.

“I am sure you would empathize best of all, my friend,” Myrcella said in a breathless voice. “Faraway lands, daring sword fights. I can travel without moving my feet.”

The girls each giggled at her wide-eyed wonder but it was Margaery who recognized the truth in the words—untravelled and sheltered as she was—and before long the brown haired girl was ushering each of her cousins away. 

Myrcella’s cousin, Joy, made no issue to move however.

“Go,” Myrcella jerked her head in the direction of the other girls. “You like to dance—it’s time you did something because you enjoy it and not because you are following my lead.” 

Joy did not move and crossed her arms over her chest, tapping her foot rapidly. 

She suppressed the urge to roll her eyes and breathed deeply. “It is overwhelming, mentally, to socialize day and night with empty headed hens,” she explained. “I need to recuperate before I am expected to partake in another ridiculous activity like ‘kiss and blow.’ Who even thought of that?” 

A softness formed in Joy’s eyes and her cousin hugged her stiffly before running in the direction of Margaery’s retinue. 

Myrcella watched her figure fade in the distance and when she was sure they all left, she got up from her spot and bookmarked the page in her book. While she felt guilty for lying to her cousin and wished not to make it a habit of peppering speech with mistruths when interacting with Joy, this was a task she needed to accomplish on her own. 

Willas was talking about his eagle he used to hawk with and that helped guide to right where she found them on a bench in the godswood, a peaceful bunch of trees and trimmed shrubbery. The smell of flowers could be reached even here. There was no need to hide from her, as the architect of the garden and godswood clearly arranged for a stone cobbled path to wind through the entire expanse of greenery. Dotted among the elms, alders and red rowans were stone benches with, of course, roses carved on the sides. 

_Did the Tyrells ever tire of seeing their own sigil? Did they have roses on their chamber pots too?_

Taking care to appear as delightfully surprised as possible, without being overly effusive, Myrcella let out a gasp, “Oh Willas! I did not expect to stumble into you here.” 

“Neither did I Myrcella. Margaery and our cousins passed us a while back—on their way to a dance lesson, to learn a waltz or the other. You did not join them?” Willas asked serenely, getting up when she entered their range of vision. 

“I desired to read my book in peace, as you can understand, and told them to run ahead.” She peered behind his shoulder and feigned interest on her face. “Who is your companion here? Please introduce us.” 

There were no introductions needed, for she knew all too well Delena Florent’s face—with her wide blue eyes, overlarge ears and the fact that she slept with Myrcella’s father. 

But it was Delena Florent who surprised them both. “There will be no need to introduce us, Willas.” She pointed out softly. “The Lady Baratheon and I are quite familiar with each other.”

When did Ser Willas Tyrell, heir to the Reach, become only ‘Willas’ to Delena fucking Florent? 

Her mind spun in multiple directions and it took all her effort to reign in her growing panic. First her father brought Delena Florent’s bastard son to _Myrcella’s_ home and now the woman who had her son snatched out from under her arms was speaking to her as if they were reacquainted friends. It was an overload of information and she smelled the beginnings of a plot brewing around her. 

“I suppose we are, however unorthodox our connection to one another may be.” Myrcella replied easily. She refused to be moved by threats or charms. Delena Florent could look at her pityingly as long as she wanted until her eyes shriveled in her skull and turned to powdered dust. The Tyrells could invite the mothers of her father’s bastards until all of Highgarden was overfilling with cheap whores and tavern wenches. She would not be cowed. “How did you recognize me? We have never spoken before, Lady Delena.” 

It ached to attach the title in front of Delena’s name but she would tolerate being civil to the woman. 

Delena tucked a hair behind her ear, looking svelte even after her pregnancy. “You have the beauty of your Lannister mother,” she let out a small bitter laugh, “and the smile of your Baratheon father.”

Out of all the women she knew her father deflowered and spilled his seed into, Delena was one of the loveliest and gracious—minus soiling her uncle’s marriage bed. It was a story she heard multiple times over. Myrcella, herself, was often subject to Selyse’s angry bleating and always needed to make herself scarce lest she end up with an aching skull. 

“You flatter me, Lady Delena.” She tilted her head appraisingly to the pair in front of her. A lock of hair fell in her eyes and she brushed it away. “What brings you to Highgarden?” 

Willas and Delena shared a look. 

“Er—my father—that is Lord Alester—had business to attend to with Willas’s father, Lord Tyrell and it had to be dealt with in person. It was not the sort of matter to be situated over an exchange of letters.” 

Myrcella let out a sound of understanding and pressed on. “And how long will you be guesting at Highgarden, my lady?”

“My father predicts a fortnight. He is not the sort of lord who wishes to be away from his keep for too long.” 

“I am told that is an admirable habit to have in lords.” Myrcella responded conversationally. “He leads your family well.”

Delena hesitated and shuffled uncomfortably under Myrcella’s gaze. “I shall inform my father of your kind praise.” 

“Please do.” 

Willas cut in gently, “Where were you headed to before you ran into us?” 

That was her cue to leave now. She had encroached on their privacy for too long now.

She laughed. “I finished the last chapter of my book.” 

“A good read, I hope.” 

“Not at all,” Myrcella remarked with cheer. “Though the writer did embed a few plot twists I found to be _most_ interesting.” 

“Do make sure to tell me about them later, Lady Myrcella.” 

“I will.” She turned to Delena Florent who was still fixating at her, as if she was in a daze. “I do hope your stay at Highgarden proves to be as agreeable as mine as been, Lady Delena. Good day to you both.” 

Myrcella spun on her heel, her gold and purple skirts swishing around her like the trail of a peacock opening and flexing, before Delena Florent’s voice broke through the awkward tension. 

“Wait—” the other woman held out a hand, as if reaching out to Myrcella, “Lady Baratheon—before you leave…” she bit her lip and looked up beseechingly, “ … I was hoping you might do me a favor—” 

“How presumptuous of you.” Myrcella snapped coldly, her patience finally disappearing in a flash. “You lost all right to ask me or any member of my family for any _favor_ years ago, Lady Delena.”

Against her will, she felt some trace of sympathy bubble up when Delena Florent visibly flinched and shrank under her cold fury. Instead of seeing the villainous seductress shrew she hoped Edric Storm’s mother was, she only saw a lost and immensely sad woman with little to no social prospects. There was a terrifying vulnerability to the way Delena Florent kept her arms close, one hand grabbing the other wrist, and her head bent down to avoid eye contact. 

This was not a talented mistress of her father’s. This was a woman who lost her child. 

_Mama’s hysterical sobbing could be heard throughout the keep and Myrcella clutched her stuffed stag close to her chest. There was a flurry of movement around her and she did not understand what was happening._

_“He’s dead! My baby, my son! He’s dead!” The sound of wailing echoed around the stone walls, shrill and savage like a wounded animal. “My poor baby—my—my boy—!” The crying dissolved into a series of frantic hiccuping and sniffling._

_Myrcella felt tears pool in her eyes and she shook her head, covering her ears with her hands. This was not her Mama who always pulled her close and promised to protect her cubs. This was not her untouchable, unbreakable, unbearably golden Mama._

_She started crying too and did not stop until Septa Gertrude pulled her into her arms and soothed her._

Even now, Myrcella wanted her mother. 

Before Delena Florent had even asked, Myrcella knew deep down what the woman wanted. 

“Your son fares well at Storm’s End or so I am told,” she said more gently and Delena straightened up instantly, her eyes brightening with affection. “My brother has taken well to him and they often spar together on the training grounds. I believe Edric is strong for his age.”

“Truly?” Delena moved closer as if to grab her by the shoulders and shake her for more information about her son’s well being. “Ed is—Ed is happy?” She asked, unable to keep the edge of disbelief out of her voice. 

Myrcella suggested kindly, “He will be happier if you take care to write to him often.” 

“What?” Delena stumbled back like Myrcella had struck her across the face. “He’s—they told me—his homesickness—it—” She cleared her throat. “They told me not to write to him. That it would be best if I didn’t. Are you sure he wants to hear from me?” 

“From my experience, when a child leaves their home for another castle in a far off land …” she held her chin up high, “... there is little that comforts them as well as a mother’s words.”

* * *

**Willas**

After Myrcella left the disastrous interaction in the godswood, Willas had been left with the uncomfortable task of comforting a sobbing Delena who clutched to his tunic and gasped her son’s name in between soft wailing. 

They stayed in the godswood until Delena composed herself and then some until her eyes lost their great tinge of redness. Even if Alester Florent gave him the liberty of accompanying his youngest daughter unchaperoned, Willas doubted the man would react well to the sight of Delena sniffling and weeping softly. Though it was no fault of his own. 

He escorted the lady back to her rooms and told her he would have a raven sent to Storm’s End on the morrow if she did not whisper a word of what transpired between the three of them. She nodded meekly and closed the door, no doubt to start penning her letter to her young son. This was turning out to be more troublesome than it was worth. How the hell did he get dragged into the middle of what amounted to be a catfight between two women? He was not even the man they were arguing about! 

The next few days passed without commotion. The dinner on the first night they hosted the Florents went by without a hitch and Delena mustered the will to socialize with some of her tablemates. Still the one source of frustration remained utterly determined to avoid him at all costs. 

Myrcella suddenly found herself surrounded by Margaery’s giggling gaggle of girls at all times and when she did break away from the entourage her shadow was always flanking her. When he waited at their usual table in the library, she was not there to annoy him by bending the spines of the books or putting her feet on the table or not using her drink coaster. She was always conveniently occupied with _something_ : sailing on the Mander in pleasure barges, hawking with Margaery, entertaining her companions or taking up more lessons with their family tutors. 

Even at dinner times—his father made it a rule for the entire family to have dinner together unless they had other obligations—she refused to meet his gaze and found an excuse to sit anywhere _but_ next to him. Myrcella only dined with them occasionally. Perhaps once a week to appear amiable, for he knew she would rather have been eating with her friend. The only consolation was that Myrcella did not push the lengths of his father’s generosity by insisting her bastard cousin sit with them on the off chance she did accept their invitation to dinner.

He immediately dismissed the prospect of recruiting Margaery in his quest to speak to Myrcella. His sister was too much like their Redwyne relations to be of any true help to him and would parrot whatever findings she came across to their grandmother. No, best leave Margie out of the entire equation. Gargoyle would have teased him endlessly and little Leech could not keep a secret from their family to save his life. No need to bother his family there.

This was something he had to decipher on his own. Thankfully, he was accustomed to solving his personal grievances independently. 

That was why he stood outside Myrcella’s bedroom in the _Multiflora_ tower with all it’s damnable stairs and gossipy guards. He thought it was foolishly generous of his father to give Myrcella her own tower but found he appreciated the irony in that. A golden haired maiden stuck in an ivory tower. 

Just as he was about to knock on her door, a voice behind cleared its throat loudly. 

He turned around and felt an embarrassing amount of relief when he saw it was just her cousin. 

“Is there something I might help you with, my lord?” 

Shifting uncomfortably underneath her accusing glare, Willas eventually straightened up. “I was—err—hoping Myrcella might be in her rooms?” He ventured cautiously. 

He was rewarded with a deeper frown etching itself onto Joy Hill’s pinched face. “She is not.” 

“Er—alright then.” 

“Was there something else you wished to know?” 

_Yeah, what the hell that conversation was about and why I had to witness it_. He responded wryly. 

Instead he asks, “When will Cella return?” 

At the informal usage of Myrcella’s name in front of someone who was not her, Willas knew he committed a _faux pas_. 

“That’s Lady Myrcella to _you_ , Ser.” Lady Joy looked at him unamused—he had no doubt she knew what he was here for—and waved her hand dismissively. “I was informed Cella was to return when she finished her duties.” 

What was it about women that caused them to give incomplete or indirect answers? It was a simple matter of when he could expect to see Myrcella again. “Naturally, perhaps I should have asked what your orders are? To keep me away from her?”

She gaped openly at him before schooling her features into the familiar mask of calm detachment. “I have no idea what you are hinting at, Ser. Now if you will excuse me, I need to freshen up—” she made an attempt at moving toward the door but he stopped her with his cane. 

“Your new proclivity toward directing conversations in a roundabout way is not charming nor is it desired, my lady. If you wish to waste my time, and my remaining good will toward you, then be honest about it.” 

Joy smirked at him and nudged his cane away with her foot. “Frankly, Ser, I don’t give a damn about you thinking I am charming or desirable or maintaining any semblance of your ‘goodwill’ towards me. We are not friends.” 

“Not that it was possible.” He snorted. 

“That is false. I quite enjoy your sister’s company—wonderfully clever. If only you possessed an ounce of her astuteness to realize there is no point in stumbling and chasing after Myrcella when she does not want to be chased.” 

“I want to know if we both have the same understanding of the circumstance,” he grumbled in frustration. “There are also matters my father wishes for me to break to her—” 

“If we did,” her voice was as dry as kindling, “then we would not be having this asinine interaction, would we? I am also sure Lord Tyrell can find the time in his busy schedule to speak to his ward himself.”

“How unbecoming of you.” 

“I don’t care.” 

“Such brevity.” 

“If only there was more to this conversation.” She rolled her emerald green eyes, the same one as Myrcella’s. 

Willas knew his face was blank but inside he was a mix of being weary of her insolence and flabbergasted that a bastard would have the audacity to speak to him so forwardly. To her credit, she remained unflappable. 

“Trust me, I do not derive pleasure from this exchange either .” He groused before sighing deeply. “But if you want me to leave, then I would have you deliver a message for me.”

She smiled, clearly enjoying him groveling for her help. “Why should I do anything for you, Ser Willas?”

“Why do you have so much devotion to Myrcella but only rebukes and mockery for me?”

“Myrcella is easy to love.” She tilted her head to the side. “She deserves my loyalty.” 

He felt his face flush, “Do not imply I am not a man who does not deserve loyalty.” 

“I never said you were undeserving of loyalty. I merely implied you are not worthy of _my_ loyalty.” 

He was no more eager to tolerate her toying him like Margaery was prone to do and cut straight the point. “I have tolerated her perfidy and childishness for far too long. She willingly made me a party to her tête-à-tête with her father’s former mistress. Beyond being extremely uncomfortable for me, it was also highly improper. The least I am owed is an explanation from Myrcella.”

“And the plot thickens. The shy heir does have a spine after all.” She drawled. 

“ _J_ _oy_.” 

Joy gave him a sympathetic look before it vanished without a trace. It was _de rigueur_ for all Lannisters to hide all traces of emotion in public even the ones born out of wedlock. 

“You are asking me to do the impossible by violating my promise to always support Myrcella. She shares her faith in me and I her. How will she react if I allow your personal sentiments to come between us?” She feigned disinterest by staring at her perfectly manicured cuticles. 

Of course they would keep to each other and adhere to their vows. They only had each other at Highgarden and Willas only had a shred of patience left for the woman who only proved to authenticate that Lannisters and their scions were troublesome, obstreperous and polemic to a fault.

He refused to let his temper get the better of his judgement—if only to spare her the satisfaction of him confirming every negative opinion she has of him and his family. Dammit—he would not let himself be outwitted by a little girl!

“So she did task you with keeping me away,” Willas noted. “Fine then—I will not force you to do anything you do not give your complete consent to,” he began carefully and she scoffed. 

“When have high lords such as yourself stooped so low to worry about what womenfolk think in regards to your actions at our expense?” She demanded. “What reason do I have to believe your word is to be taken at face value?” 

So he touched a sore spot then. It was almost unfair of him to jump at the opportunity—he prided himself by taking the measures to act scrupulous and at least feel _shame_ in underhanded tricks unlike his grandmother. 

“I only ask you to consider my request. Once it is known, you alone are left with the choice to act upon it or not.” 

She nodded stiffly, “Fire away then, if only it will end your blathering.” 

“When Lady Myrcella returns to her chambers, I would ask you to remind her to visit me at our usual spot. Today’s the day—” Joy opened her mouth to question him and he held up a hand to stave off any further questions, “—and that will be all. She possesses a complete understanding of my words. That is all.”

“Is it?” Joy posed. “Is that it? Or will you make further demands of Myrcella and make this imprisonment even more unbearable for her? Do you not see that you have all the power and she is left at your whims? Have you forgotten she is here as a hostage?” 

He had forgotten she was a royal hostage and was not in a position to refuse his demands. Now he felt distinctly dirty. Only back for a few moons and he began to adopt the ruthless attitude his Redwyne grandmother and sister had. (Margaery was no true Tyrell or Hightower. It was a futile effort to think she was anything but a conniving Redwyne.)

“If she does not wish to speak to me, I will not press the matter further.” 

She did not believe him and snorted. 

He flinched and shrugged, “When have you known me to mistreat Myrcella or anyone else, in fact? I have nothing political to gain from talking to her.” 

Joy’s face hardened again. “It does suit you to play the moral martyr. As if you have made extreme sacrifices to befriend Myrcella. Nor is it beneficial to your argument to pretend this endeavour was anything but selfless, Ser. You want to ease your own conscience.” 

The look he received, the frustrated disappointment, as if he were a child who had not quite risen up on par to the expectations placed upon him. While anger he was more than equipped to handle with grace, disappointment still managed to discombobulate him deeply. To his annoyance, it made him feel the need to find Myrcella and shake the truth out from the girl. 

“While I will not deny part of my motivation is to satisfy my own curiosity, Myrcella is my friend. I have not forgotten that. You will do well to give her the option of making her own choices instead of taking her life into her own hand. No doubt you believe you are rightfully protecting her.” 

She moved to argue but still no words came out of her mouth. Prudent to a fault, no doubt. He might have been impressed if not for the girl’s adherence to being utterly devoted to Myrcella which resulted in _his_ growing migraine. 

“I cannot make her do as I say.” Joy answered. 

“No, I have no intention of you doing that.” He returned. It would negate the purpose of having an honest conversation with her. “I simply want you to think about whether you should deliver a message for her.” 

She seemed more amused this time. “I also cannot force Myrcella to keep any promises or stick to her intentions.” 

Willas felt more tired this time. 

_There is a certain comfort in knowing all women are fickle in equal measure_. 

“I am not asking you to.” 

“You are asking me to consider delivering a message. I have pondered on it.” 

“And your answer is.” 

“I will try to knock some sense into Myrcella and inform her it is ill-advised and absurd for her to maintain this pretense of Delena Florent never happening.” 

“So the shadow does have a mind of its own.” 

“Careful now.” Joy crossed her arms. “I may enjoy you but be careful Ser Willas.” 

Now he felt a portion of what Tyrion felt everyday living at Casterly Rock—bonetired. 

“If you deliver the message and nothing changes, then so be it.” 

“Do remember that, Ser, if she is not as emotionally invested in this as you are.” 

An hour later when Willas sat in his preferred, all but labeled really, chair in the library, he rubbed his eyes and felt the tendrils of exhaustion creep up on him. It was getting late, the fire was dying in the hearth, and his eyes were strained reading the small text. Not to mention, his foot did not stop fidgeting at the prospect of _finally_ ending this childish farce Myrcella put on. 

Just as he was about to put back his book and retire to his chambers, a voice broke out. 

“Willas? You wanted to speak to me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hoped to highlight Myrcella's emotional maturity in this chapter. She essentially accepted symbols of her father's infidelity into her home for her brother's sake and struggles to reconcile with the idea that Delena Florent, Robert Baratheon's one-time affair, is also a victim. At the end of the day, she is a child and a lot of her anger is misplaced. Westeros does not allow women to be angry at men for their mistakes and the patriarchal nature of society pits women against each other.
> 
> This was Myrcella's attempt at empathy and a step closer to realizing Robert Baratheon is not the great man she thinks he is. All fathers disappoint and he is no different. 
> 
> Willas is attempting to reach out to Myrcella out of a sense of compassion. She is a child who was came across her father's mistress and clearly goes experiences turmoil about it. I want to stress that their relationship is not romantic yet. He is almost a grown man (17) and she is 11. He wishes to speak to her out of sympathy and brotherly concern.
> 
> As with Joy's character, I hoped to convey someone who is acutely aware of the people around her. Being high functioning and supremely intelligent bastard with no outlets for her wits means Joy turns to analyzing and understanding people. She cannot be trained in politics, economics or administration like Myrcella was. As a result she psychoanalyzes people and can glean their motives more effectively than Myrcella.


End file.
